The drive back was almost painfully quiet.
Rain-streaked streetlights slid across the windshield, bending and breaking over Lin Shen's tense profile. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting rigidly on his knee. The air in the car felt tight, as if any sound might shatter whatever thin control he had left.
I watched him for a long moment, tracing the stiffness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the steering wheel a little too hard.
He wasn't calm.
Not at all.
He was holding himself together only because he had to.
"Lin Shen…" I finally whispered.
"Don't," he said, eyes fixed on the road, voice low. "If you talk right now, I won't be able to keep myself in check."
A small shiver slipped down my spine—not from fear, but from the weight of his words.
The honesty in them.
The danger of them.
I turned my face toward the window, but I could still feel his restraint filling the small space between us.
When the car finally pulled into the parking garage of his building, he didn't move. His hand stayed on the wheel for a moment longer, knuckles pale, breath uneven.
Then he exhaled slowly and said, "Come upstairs. I need to know you're really okay."
There was no question in the sentence.
It was a quiet plea disguised as an order.
I nodded.
Inside the elevator, silence wrapped around us again.
The soft hum of the machinery only made everything more intense.
Lin Shen stood on my left, close but not quite touching me. His eyes stared straight ahead at the glowing floor numbers. But his breathing was still off rhythm, slightly too shallow, slightly too quick.
I wanted to reach out to him.
To tell him I was here.
To tell him I didn't blame him for anything.
But before I could speak, he suddenly did something he never did:
He reached for my wrist.
Not roughly.
Not possessively.
But with a careful, desperate gentleness that made my chest tighten.
His thumb brushed over the edge of my bandage.
"You could've been hurt," he murmured, voice raw.
"You could've been hit. Do you understand what that would've done to me?"
My breath caught.
"I'm okay now."
"I know."
He swallowed.
"But I'm not."
The elevator dinged.
He let go of my wrist instantly, as if he'd just realized what he was doing.
Once inside his apartment, he turned on only one dim light, leaving the room mostly soaked in shadows.
The atmosphere shifted—heavy, intimate, fragile.
He set his keys down on the table and finally turned to me. "Sit."
I obeyed, sitting on the edge of his couch.
He crouched in front of me—eye level, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath. His fingers gently lifted my arm again, inspecting the bandage as if memorizing every detail.
"I should've protected you better," he whispered.
"You did."
"No."
His eyes met mine, dark and intense.
"I failed the moment I let you walk out that door alone."
Something in my chest loosened painfully.
I reached for him. "Lin Shen, I wasn't trying to punish you. I just… needed space."
His jaw tightened.
"I don't want space from you."
The honesty in his tone stunned me.
Before I could respond, he added, almost reluctantly:
"And I can't give you space—not after tonight."
My heartbeat stumbled.
"Then what do you want?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength.
When he opened them again, there was no distance left—no walls, no denial, nothing but the truth he had fought so hard to hide.
"You," he said quietly.
"I want you."
The world seemed to still.
I felt heat rise up my neck, my breath catching in my throat. "Then why do you keep pushing me away?"
His eyes flickered—guilt, fear, longing, all colliding at once.
"Because wanting you scares me more than losing myself ever could."
He stood slowly, then sat beside me. Not too close, but close enough that the warmth from his body seeped into my skin.
"For years, everything in my life has been predictable. Controlled. Safe."
He looked down at his hands.
"But you walked in and… none of it feels stable anymore."
I whispered, "I didn't mean to disrupt your life."
"You didn't," he said.
"You ruined my balance. My routines. My principles."
He turned his head, eyes locking on mine.
"And I don't want them back."
That admission sent a tremor through me.
I drew a slow breath. "Then let me in."
His fingers twitched—just barely.
"I'm trying," he said, voice almost breaking.
"But you need to understand… I'm afraid of what I'll do if I stop holding back."
I leaned closer, just enough that our shoulders brushed.
"You won't hurt me."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
A long, tense silence fell between us.
Then, without warning, he lifted his hand and cupped the side of my face—not pulling me closer, not claiming anything, just holding me with a tenderness that made my eyes sting.
"You nearly died in front of me," he whispered. "And all I could think about was how I'd never forgiven myself if I lost you."
My breath trembled.
His thumb brushed my cheek once, slow and deliberate.
"Please don't run from me again," he said.
"Not like that."
I nodded. "Okay."
He exhaled shakily, relief washing over his features.
But he didn't move his hand.
If anything, he leaned in just a little more—close enough that our foreheads nearly touched.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For coming back."
I didn't know who moved first—maybe him, maybe me—but suddenly the distance between us narrowed until there was barely an inch left.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
But the kind of closeness where breathing felt dangerous.
He closed his eyes as if fighting himself.
"I shouldn't," he whispered.
"Then don't," I whispered back.
His eyes opened slowly, meeting mine with all the restraint he was about to lose.
And for the first time tonight, he didn't pull away.